


From Isaac, To Abraham

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Lost Found Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: They were kids that I once knewNow they’re all dead hearts to you.
Kudos: 4





	From Isaac, To Abraham

Skids’s knees were tired; his pedesteps were heavy and he felt a strut deep ache as he settled amongst the whispering blue blossoms.

He looked from name to name to name and back again, feeling his intake grow tight as rage and anguish battled for a perch upon his breaking spark.

_“It was never supposed to be this way.”  
_

_“He promised he’d protect us.”_

He wanted to hate. He wanted to shut down, to freeze over like Perceptor and let the world narrow down to a crosshairs he could direct with no feelings to betray his hands.

He wanted to howl. He wanted to bare fangs and claws like Drift once was able to, wanted to release the cruel creatures prowling the back of his mind and exact justified cruelty on the ones who broke him. His family. His classmates.

He wanted to weep. He wished he could let his optics rain down his faceplates like stagnant sewer drains and poison the steps of the one who walked away.

Oh, how he hated the way the moon hung in the sky; yellow-pale and watching and perfectly round like an equation on an exam.

How he hated the way the word logical tasted.

He wanted so badly to Become, to be Reborn like his sunrise sweetspark had been- But without the tattered violet of falsified royalty.

Skids let himself sink down, first to his knees. His servos curled into fists and pressed against his optics as the names of the outliers he once knew and loved stared back with nothing but the cold lines of marble-chiseled measurements and he shifted to sit heavily amongst the flowers.

Petals fluttered up as he curled in on himself, mourning with no sound and begging a god that turned away so long ago to please… please return that comforting fog of ignorance that once protected his spark.

He spoke their names through his wounded weeping, he begged forgiveness for sins he was not at fault for.

And through it all, his traitor-spark begged and pleaded for a Senator’s voice to cut through his grief; he wished for sky blue and seafoam to surround him and calm his raw pain and turn his face away from the death that held his gaze.

It hurt all the more to realize that the one-time savior of the outliers had long since become another callous deity, watching from a distance with disinterest and nothing but the cold finality of a single judgement.

_Mourning, at least so messily, is Illogical._

The moon watched like a hood-helmed optic, feeling nothing and offering no comfort as Skids wept for the ones he had almost entirely forgotten.


End file.
